Only enough
by Karenin-Akbash-07
Summary: Such nefarious happenings...who said there must be a meaning behind them? Even in Minecraftia, things often don't mean as much as they look like. Come here, sit down and lets watch as the world and its inhabitants agonize around us.
1. Path

It's a long path, made out of colorful wool, stretching itself through the depths of The Void, becoming each time more twisted as enormous creatures fly, laugh, giggle and scream at the poor souls that dare to walk around such terrible place.

The creeper does not give attention to them, apathetically walking, searching or something that can no longer be found.

The creature has lost everything, giving it in exchange for little pieces of glass, small enough to be eaten, big enough to hurt while going down its delicate throat.

They have given it a light, and it has eaten it whole.

Its head is not connected to the body, it floats some centimeters up, only not flying away to finally feed the ones watching because it is bound to the neck by long, glowing ropes. The former glass understands its new purpose now.

Something tugs at the Path. It is hungry…so very hungry…sadly, it starts chewing at the wool, instead. How pathetic! It is so weak it can't think enough to understand it could finish the creeper's existence!

The path shortens each second. It's time to run.

Unknown eyes watch as the broken creature speeds down the corridors, taking care not to fall down. The darkness is a terrible end for such beings.

Something starts a choir of human lullabies. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are…

It reaches a bifurcation. No way is right or wrong, but it's time to choose, anyway. No rational decision can be made with both options are equal.

Left is for the heart, right is for the true emotion.

Going ahead, it jumps into the nothingness.

Oh, such devious little spirits! They turn their little path visible again, letting the creeper walk on it in return for its beautiful decision.

Left is for the heart, right is for the true emotion and going ahead is for our madness, tearing this dream apart. What about turning back? Turning back is for suicide, as she proudly sings of her little stupid pains.

The hungry creature has just started to eat itself. No danger survives its own terrible nature.

Lights, weird and painful, appear everywhere, taking each piece of this Void away and putting their own blindness on it, instead. Walls, floor, ceiling, everything is white and infinite in all directions, in a way or the other.

The creeper cries. It's almost on its end…how can the world be so indifferent? How? It doesn't matter, to say the truth. When there aren't Players, other mobs or Gods, things are quite meaningless, so one shouldn't be pained by it. No one is supposed to be hurt by the concept of loneliness, not even "us".

"Hey there"

It is talking to itself, sadly. But…forget it, please. Don't pay attention to its desperate attempts to exist once again. It is all lost already.

A beautiful portal becomes real in the middle of the terrible room. How can you reach the half of infinite? Well, just say you are there.

The creature steps on it and screams loudly. It doesn't hurt, but it is needed anyway. Leave the pain behind and let the lights feast on it.

The sun is setting in the plains. Everything is silent as the first mobs spawn around.

In the ground, the little body of a child. Our creeper, the skin and muscle of the neck cut off, leaving the distorted bones of the spine to be the only thing between the torn apart body and the head.

Who did that?

No one. Even if it had done it to itself, it would still be no one, for it no longer exists.

It fades away, and no one will ever care again.


	2. Sinew

How lame of night to bring us such a terrifying creature...Three blocks high, pitch black skin. And enderman, of course. It just had to be!

It looks around. The blind ones do not notice the world around themselves…both the blind of their eyes and the blind of their "hands".

All of its face it taken by an enormous mouth, made to swallow without thinking, the mouth of a hungry child that will do everything to be fed anything. The world demands its life in exchange of the bread crumbs that have already been spat on.

It looks down at the water, extending its hands to see it.

What hands, dear? You don't even have arms!

Stepping back now. There is nowhere to go! Nowhere! And the reason, as it knows, is very simple. There is no reason to go.

A quick shadow, unseen by all, dashes across the screen. How long can one survive? It bites around, trying to reach something to eat. Chew, gnaw, lick, swallow whole without thinking. The wolf prepares to attack. It can see the truth behind it all.

It isn't hungry.

It is so lost it cannot understand its own purpose, and so, it eats away the world, as time eats away what is left of its life.

The wolf attacks. Soon, it is all black, white and a pure, deep red that was never supposed to be outside its shell, an excuse for a living being.

There is no sound other than biting and crushing.

The enderman's sins and sinews. Bone are still bones, but the cartilages are eaten away. A dance of destruction, indeed! But it doesn't last longer than one hour.

It is time to go.

The wolf leaves the carcass, ready to throw itself off a cliff out of plain disgust. They never told it that it could hurt so much to let itself live another day…

Creatures look disappointed at the dead body. How sad! There is nothing left! And they continue on their paths, monochrome or colorful, joyful or sorrowful. Do you really care about it? Or is it just another excuse to be heard?

Wolf in the sea!

Not even the water heard its last words, more because it didn't want to be distracted than for any other reason. Even the water is full of its own tasks.

La…la…la…the carcass sings, before struggling to crawl away from its own death scene.

We will find a nice place! Come on, believe me! It is easy, just try again!

Over and over, the echoes of the mob's lies are heard. All are equally corrupted by the sight of their own uselessness. It hurts, you see, it hurts to know that your only purpose lies in your death. It is a bitter, maddening truth, so they close their eyes, their ears, their mouths…

The hungry wolf and the lying Enderman. Aren't those exactly the same? For our purposes, at least.

Well, it is already late and even these mobs are going to sleep.

The little steps of everything and everyone, a constant exercise of self harm and humiliation…when will you clap your hands with us?

Tomorrow is a new day, thought.

Vermins feast on the dead body standing by the trees.


	3. Freedom

Clapping it's hands and looking around nervously. The Player wants to catch the little nameplate, but it knows it must remain calm.

That silly mess of letters and numbers isn't his name. It cannot be…if he ever acknowledged that as his name he would be lost forever, completely in control of the ancient entities that control everything and everyone in every single moment of their lives.

He stops for a second.

A sudden movement and the plate was caught.

Shattered into little pieces on the ground and the menace of the not-name is gone.

It is not enough yet.

Is he being watched? Is this world true? Has he ever really existed?

Yes. No. No.

"Why am I?"

The answer is full of fear, something always denied, over and over. The mobs realize it the best, knowing their purpose and accepting it with their "souls". Can digital excuses for puppets be classified as living, anyway?

It hurts. The eternal existential doubt is deeper when you are controlled and played with like that.

The Player steps out of the little house, book and pen on his hands.

He sits down and prepares to write.

He CAN be in control too! He knows it! He can write them down, torture their not-lives, and make sure they feel like him…

Won't he be trapping himself if he writes?

"Stop that. Q, WWWWWWWWWWWWW. You must run, character. You belong to me and today we will build a house"

He won't cry for the one behind the glass has not told him to do so.

Fight, sleep, eat, build, exist, breath, live.

It's been one hour since midnight and our child needs to go to sleep.

Left in deep paralysis, the Player cannot move or dream his life away. Just the wall of a rusty house and one week before he can move again, 9 A.M.

Sobbing. How he wishes this would end!

It is sudden, a weak idea.

Maybe…this is not…Minecraftia…maybe…this is less…

"This is just a tale, isn't it?"

He turns around, to stare at the eternal, unbreakable glass.

It is not a real glass either.

He smiles. How pathetic! After all…he is just a fake person in a fake game in a fake reality controlled by a fake person!

He steps towards us and touches the cold wall, trembling.

It is time to end this.

He utters last sentence, already feeling the glass crack before him, the freedom he spent his whole life wishing for closer and closer each second…

"Next chapter, please"


	4. Perversion

They told it that it would hurt. They warned it a million times, but it ignored everything and everyone, for it was her duty.

The two creepers met in a dark little room. Catherine smiled creepily, in that weird way only she could smile. Her new apprentice stared at the ground, scared. It was alright, thought. Soon, it would be over and in the end…she would forget the concept of pain itself.

"Well, then, it is all settled…What about a new name, dear? After a week, more or less, I bet your parents would hate to have such a stain in the name of the family…"

"Ah…I…don't know…"

"I will choose a new one, then…Even my guys have new names, you know? One doesn't need to be sent to these amazing Players to be a disgrace!"

"What…will…it be?"

"Umm…I know! Yours. You are the fifty Yours, to be exact. The controlling guys just plain love it! Umm…I will ask Zipper for some of her things for you…oh, yes, you seem like the kind that would be perfect for the violent persons!"

She shivered.

"Oooh! I should sell you, you know? I generally give you out for free, but this is a special case…a violence taker newcomer! All clean…and so small! Plus, I need money…"

Catherine kept on talking to herself like the lunatic she was.

One day of expectation. The second day, bought. The third day was a travel and gifts from the hands of her new, opened up friend. The fourth day was a day of suffering and malice. The fifth day was the day after the pain, a toy thrown to a side, a new routine.

It will never hurt again.

It keeps happening for…let's see three years. It is enough. From someone to just Yours.

A missing eye, a wide smile, standing on her own little room, cheerfully clawing on her little diary as if to write something. She is writing down the ones she wants to meet yet. The most disgusting, sick and sadistic creatures…the worse they are, the more apprentices wish for them!

An eternity of plain and simple suffering is a paradise if you don't feel pain. None of them can be hurt, even if they can still die. Agony, happiness, pleasure, lunacy…whatever! They just play around with their own lives, looking for their loved ones and kneeling down before them.

Their soul is made out of submission on its purest state…if something "pure" is left in them, that is!

Their dream selves are tainted and twisted into Player Dolls for the Real Players. Creatures made for them, just for them and for no other purpose…

She giggles and looks in the chests. Where is that thing?

Ribbons, collars, swords…things of all shapes and sizes, made for several different reasons. Mostly for hurting.

There it is!

A short, colorful blade. This one is for her neck, for the one that liked to open it.

This was a part she usually liked a lot. It had been a while since Catherine had sorted her out for these clients who dreamed to actually eat something while still alive and agonizing. She mostly worked in dreams, thought, as a little child with a big smile.

Over time she got addicted to herself.

Using her mouth, her pawns and the ground, she takes off pieces of her neck, breathing quickly and heavily. She takes as much as she can without fainting due to blood loss.

Salty…tasty…it takes everything away with it. She could be sharing this right now, but she isn't. One can't have everything, can they? It is inebriating, impossible to stop. She will kill herself doing that once again…but it will all be worth it.

Someone else enters the room, stopping near her.

"What a shame…you are wasting your respawns, you know."

It gets another knife and cheerfully joins the child for dinner.


	5. Crushing

He is delighted by the little silverfish contorting on his hands. It is so sweet to be able to crush it!

Kill it like you would kill yourself. Again and again until you are too tired to do anything.

Growling, the zombie catches another one and equally breaks it. They don't matter at all…they cannot matter…he must be the most important being of his own universe.

He must be.

When will our "pride" paradox end? Maybe tomorrow, if we are lucky enough. Maybe tomorrow if we all die today.

Don't worry about the pain, thought. For the happy and for the sad. For the living and for the dead. Whatever and whoever you are, it is all the same, for you and me. Life as "us" is a never ending suicide act.

Life drowns itself in lava.

Their little squeaking sounds are pathetic as they agonize.

He must find a way to justify what is left of this ending.

What if there is no reason whatsoever to this? What if there isn't a good motive why he shouldn't disappear and be replaced by another one?

It happens that that he could be replaced and it wouldn't make the minimal difference too.

More agonizing silverfish are thrown in a corner.

All of those shed tears are futile.

What about the other things this world loses by him disappearing? Nothing. Players don't really care about who they slaughter. Really. It makes no difference other than your armor. You are what you "wear", what you carry and have, you are measured by your strength only. The rest? A shell for your true self.

And what is this true self?

It is what other people need in you. In this case? Armor. Iron. Things. Depending on their luck, you have no true self. You are worth nothing as well.

Isn't that wrong?

If it wasn't for the good moments, you would be dead.

If it wasn't for the terrible moments, you would be dead.

Each of them makes you. Denying the past is denying yourself, your life. And so, our beautiful suicide continues as life screams in pain, burnt to death by the molten rocks.

In the end, it all happens because you want them to happen. You depend on these happenings with every single inch of yourself, even if you don't know yet.

Our zombie is crying while crushing his dear friends.

If you want to change the past, you want to kill yourself.

Be patient, Player. We are all going with you. We aren't that alone in death.

It hurts so much to have company…

The last one falls to the ground, pure white blood and insect insides all around it. Who would it be if it never was?

What is the exact weight of being? The end is not a valid escape. Once it ends, you are no more and while you are, this life is yours, only yours, and you must bear it to the end.

There is no way to escape, dear mob. Their blood won't change your fate.

He curls up into a little ball, sticking his rotten thumb on his putrid mouth.

Their blood tastes bitter, but this is still warm.

Someone sings a lullaby far away.

I am talking to you too, sadly.


	6. Dance

Light a fire and let it burn. Burn everything away, our tears and laughs, until all that is left is a retorted pile of bones and burnt flesh.

So many mobs and Players…becoming a single distorted entity, dancing their eyes away.

Here, there, some become smoke, some become water and lava, breaking each other, destroying everything and leaving obsidian behind. Is that their souls? No. Their souls are dirt blocks.

One arm here, one leg there, moving, contorting, crawling in the ground. Screams, cries, pleas to the sky…it happens that even the Gods can dance and so, no one will answer and no dreams will come true.

Just eat your hope, hungry kid.

Lick it; take off little bits, letting the bitter flavor take everything until it becomes a little mess of white, green and black.

Those are the colors of depravation, putrefaction and…I am sorry, there is no poetry to you. Black is the color of that disgusting little alley in the town, where these kids are given away by that horrible creeper.

It is time for the perverted, the corrupted and the happy to party! Come on, let's have fun! Everyone is invited! This night is not a night for kids…except our especial guests! Come on, little enderman! Show us what your master taught you all!

It laughs, gets a bucket with water and sticks its hands in, screaming purposefully, letting its pain be mixed with the crowd's excitement. Getting on top of a table, calling people and splashing water…Someone will get there too and our party will move on!

A sword happens and a Player falls dead. A love quarrel, maybe. Whatever! We will forget this by the time sun comes up! Drink this world away! Water, milk…poison. Death is forgettable too, as long as you can enjoy your final day with us.

Little kids quickly make it disappear, eating it all, even the bones. Some of these bones are used as weapons, others are put in terrible hands and, upside down, venture into their insides, in a way or the other.

Clapping their hands whenever someone falls unconscious, singing disgusting songs, forgetting themselves.

There aren't Players, There aren't mobs. Just the "us" that live and live, without caring about others. Wasting tears and blood in fun, just like vermin in the ground. Isn't that amazing too?

Forget the sun, all the light here is fire, through our clothes, through our flesh, muscles, organs, whatever! There is no soul down there, just a smiling face, full of teeth and blood. Their blood. The blood of all the dead ones, including yourself.

Come on! Don't be ashamed! Show yourself! Sing, cry, fall. There is no way you can fall once again once you reached this place. This is the place where your heart will agonize, happier than ever, twisting itself in pure joy, an immense pleasure. Follow it! It's a party, after all! A dead party for nasty beings!

One by one, the shield of the hours falls and the sun comes up.

Pure, golden light, across plains, forests and deserts. Across Them.

The twisted being dissolves, each not-mob and each not-Player walking around, as if drunk, taken away by the memories of the blackened fire and the sensation of waking up from a dream. A terrible, filthy dream that is all they wish to live, again and again, to their unworthy dying breath.

But it is gone. The fire was killed and so were them. Like shadows, they vanish, one by one, just as dirty now as before. They don't make a sound, blind to this world. It's just a silent choir.

Whatever, whatever, whatever... Welcome.

Now it is all gone, forgotten once again as the fire waits for the cold night and these terrible things, slaves of themselves, to dance their eyes away. A putrid routine, the spectacle of every day.

From ashes to ashes.


	7. Wait

It hurts, it thought. It hurts terribly to sit down and wait. Why does it hurt? Because it will not be changed until your dying breath.

Touching the ground… such a weird texture…it would panic and flee if it wasn't for the promise made…yesterday?

"I will be back"

This promise was made tomorrow, in fact.

A smile. Just two more days at the most…the wait is near its end!

It has been repeating this to itself for two years, now.

It curls itself into a little black ball. How cold are its hands…maybe it is the rain. The rain…doesn't it burn? Yes, it does. Maybe that is why it hurts, after all!

Maybe she has already returned.

It opens its big purple eyes and looks up at the grey sky. She must be there, protecting it from the rain, a pissed off look on her adorable little face, ready to scold it for making she wait in the rain.

Isn't it sad that illusions are bound to be just illusions, to the end?

One by one, the raindrops hit the delicate surface, burning it, breaking it, blinding it. The enderman does not look away, thought. The wait has turned it into some statue, unable to feel anything but the heartbreaking boredom.

Blindness could have brought it some comfort, but it didn't. Maybe even a real life hallucination! A deep comma state! Anything! No. The rain washed the person away from its dreams, along with the lights and the colors.

It didn't stop looking up.

Isn't it all about blind hope? It doubts it. Maybe it has gone crazy, broken by the time spent, minute after minute, minute after minute, trapped in that old time paradox.

Each piece of time can be broken into smaller ones infinite times.

Doesn't that mean time is just an illusion? What about space? Wouldn't' it all be a lie?

She won't come back, will she?

Its hand shakily breaks through the foggy darkness and the burning rain. Nothing. Don't be ridiculous, life is not a movie. She won't be back like that.

How long has it waited? No lies or illusions this time.

No more than a few minutes.

Will she come back for it?

She has never been there.

It sighs and stands up, breaking the rain, the blindness, the pain, the time, the boredom, the love, the wait…

Revealing the game, the theater, its act and scene.

It walks away, smiling.

Enough drama for today.


	8. Loneliness

Sometimes it was lonely down there. The hybrid loved it, thought, as it gave it time to reflect on…everything. Time to tear apart hopes and dreams. It knew those only brought sadness and despair.

Players were so silly…crying over everything! Their world was so…bad! Unlike her very own glass one, where everything was always right…except on Thursdays, when the Doctor usually came late for the usual experiments.

All pain is bearable if you understand it well enough.

She started to sing a song.

How nice! How very nice!

Soon, she was outside, taken there by her own uncertain feet, faced with freedom today. Denial to the end of the song. After this, we clap our hands.

Where is our dear Doctor? It didn't show up today!

A pickaxe through her head and a faint whisper.

"I don't really care, you see…"

She danced around in the forest, enjoying lonely moments. It was not a lie! How she wished they all could see and feel it…behind that fake smile, there was a heart filled with joy! Joy for the whole world, not to share, but to understand. Again and again, until we have sank so much that all misery is just an accident in the eternal bliss of the world.

Birds, crows, sorrow…all just a game! These people digging their own graves won't fool it just yet. With its empty eyes it sees. With its numb hands it feels.

Dramatic hypocrisy.

Is it mine too?

Maybe. Whatever! As long as I can sing these lullabies, it will all be okay.

What is the essence of love? Why not. Eating someone away! Their heart, soul and insides, until not even the bones are left. Becoming one deep down, with every single inch of themselves.

The hybrid collected little stones on its way.

No purpose, no meaning, nothing…but who said living is less worth without a meaning? It enjoys the apathetic routine that feeds the heart and heals the wounds.

It fears not its own pride and selfishness.

There aren't "inner demons" or secret pains. An elaborate plan to proof one's value, to see if life is still answering.

Sadly, as the world has always known, life does not care about itself anymore and lets everything happen, eaten away by its guilt.

The hybrid sits down and hugs itself.

Loneliness is beautifully warm, if you know what to do with it. If you can stand looking into a mirror without crying your eyes out.

Pure of the heart? Just a lie. We are all dirty inside.

Let's all share our disgusting nature once for all! Let everyone know everything, to the deep down...until the smiles are reached.

After that, each one takes its way, alone, but so taken by what is around them that it doesn't matter.

Tearing apart the concept of "empathy", we reach happiness again.

Slowly, our hybrid falls asleep.

It doesn't matter, thought. Dream and reality are the same, after all, created with the same lonely matter…

It's all illusions, laughs and hope.


	9. Rails

Going down the path. Our memories have been scattered along the rails, as if waiting for the fake trains, carts. All of them golden, as they were on their dreams, now corrupted by the immensity of their own being.

The Player blinks. Once, twice. Has it ever really existed? And if it did…what is the meaning of it all?

This mess was caused by those children, most certainly, carrying the blocks around and scaring the chickens away with their pained screams.

"Please, save me…it hurts so much…please! Please!"

We found out that they don't matter at all for our beautiful purpose. Sadly, the Player was late, so it was only possible to let go of them yesterday.

They didn't matter to it, quite in fact. They were the toys they were supposed to be and one by one, they were given and sold, feeding these angry wolves and humans.

It is all okay now.

They don't scream today, long gone.

It is time to go back to work, trimming this annoying, warm grass before it gets too purple to be used in the gold. Only light pink grass is supposed to be used and their potion would agonize and cry the whole week if something went wrong.

Is this an illusion?

Real life tastes like pieces of flesh and hot cocoa in a stormy day, when the sand hits the wet window and becomes mud in the cruel hands of water.

These kids are sand.

Isn't mud useful, thought? To make our castle stronger and stronger, waiting until the rain leaves us alone. We all have to start with something, even if it is just a dirt house in the middle of the night.

It is illuminated by the eerie red lights of little torches carried by mobs. Their coal is their tongues, torn apart and set on fire, burning low in the tip of the stick. They aren't crying, thought. They know their purpose the best. One by one, kneeling down before destiny, waiting for their very own train…

Their kids melt in the ground, little puddles of bloody entrails, giggling a bit before being gone, watching as their parents sob without words, wanting to honor their little lives, but unable to. We must serve our killer, for this is the only way through the lack of life.

Be silent, please.

And they dissolve into dust and mist, leaving their burning red torches behind, licking the ground even while gone.

The path is here, set, ready.

The Player just waits, gathering a few dreams that the wind blows near him.

Static, static. Words stuck in the throat, wanting to be spit out, thrown up…whatever! They want to become more chickens and be eaten once again, like a mortal virus, a glitch made out of feelings.

Some dogs die while the small feathered creatures tear them apart from inside. Cats grief around them, becoming balloons and floating up, to reach the stars. Is that even possible? Of course not. Cats are fools, but no bigger fools than their darling dogs.

The feathers that the chickens drop upon their sweet mass suicide (What is life when you become a bug to yourself?) tickle if you step on them.

They beg to be swallowed.

The Player grabs four and sticks them on his dirty mouth, choking, gagging on them. Fifteen minutes and there, there is nothing else.

No more than these four will meet the same destiny, thought.

The despair of the world will become a path and bridge. Pure obsidian for impure feet and hearts. Serves them right, to be kings and queens.

The dead mobs salute their dictator, all of them madly in love, drowning over and over, flailing in pure agony, and almost crying without wanting to.

The price of being happy.

Oh, finally. The train has arrived at the station of lies.

The Player claps his hands and steps in, without caring.

What was the meaning of our fantastical and painful journey through the garbage of the world? None. We created ourselves for fun and these damned children laughed at their own destiny. It was pleasing for them to be destroyed by their hands, in the end.

A distortion, a deviation of the rule. Such a painful exception!

The Player blinks. Once, twice. Déjà vu? No, it's reality happening, a gift for you and just for you. Don't let it be told once again, please!

No matter where it goes or why it goes, we will see and hear the same, once again, forever, to the end of these days. Cloudy days…cloudy days…these feathers won't help a lot, either.

Dreams create the way. It is just another fateful meeting, you see. Our Player plays with the pink grass, until it is all just yellow again and the moaning field of nowhere becomes the infinite of wheat everywhere.

"Ssshhh…she will wake up, so be careful"

These cows are overprotective, as understood.

Tomorrow is a new day, a new stop. Today, without meaning anyway, is the moment of gouging those eyes, those liars, out. The Player understands this need.

The golden rail goes on, for as long as their screams are unheard.


	10. Thought

It hurts, as we go on forever, trying to reach those stars, far, far away, out of reach. Where are we? Again and again, we sang our song, going round and round, beautiful spirals finally becoming once again.

"Who am I?"

She asked, her little, fragile voice barely audible on the weird plains, full of little nightmare puppies, howling crazily to the moon.

It hurts, It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

A repeated chant, reassuring the creature that life was still there, standing tall and proud, offering its broken hands until there is nothing left of what was once "you".

Illusions, mirage, a piece of glass lying around, pendulum of promises thrown in the ground, faking the truth, a deceiving path, to the bitter end.

Gray. Isn't it a truth as well?

Only when I have seen all the moments the child went through. Now get on four, crawl in the ground, be the nothingness you are, but remember: The ultimate goal is suffering.

Once again, we have been led astray. It happens that this is a very confusing, abstract place! It is almost like it doesn't exist…

A person and their own little world, where Minecraftia is distorted to fit them while they seek for something. Anything.

Don't let it cry.

A sea of things that make no sense whatsoever. Dreams vomited there, a gross mess of thoughts that everyone drinks every second, every day, and every single life.

Please, be gentle. Guide the creature's way, until it reaches its little home. What kind of creature is that?

We are so deep in this…to the point that it wouldn't matter to know. Creeper, Enderman, zombie, skeleton…even the EnderDragon itself! It would change nothing. The meaning is all that matters from now on.

We are now a tale about breathing. We are the dry air, full of a foul stench that comes from the depths of the earth. We hurt through the parched throat of those little kids.

It sobbed softly, unable to cry.

There was no pain, no sadness, no emptiness or loneliness to blame at all. Just a thought…a distant, curious thought. A little shadow tearing everything apart on its way…

Why don't you dance for us?

The creature screamed, unable to fight. It was all fate playing its own tricks, after all! It would try again, going on and on, until it no longer had a tongue to lick the ground below us.

Realization is an art, as you may see. The homicidal thought blooming, a weird, weird, rose. A dandelion, even! It is the end of the road, as it well knows.

Still, it moves. Denial is eternal if hope has been chewed on like that, sharp teeth breaking the flesh of the insane creature, singing itself away. Isn't it funny the way just a single idea, not even born yet, could destroy its "us" like that?

Try again.

It is a toy, a big ragdoll. Ready? Why not! Beginning again after a bad tasting ending. Very low quality, too!

**Lives taken? 10.**

And once again we go, cheering our way around: It hurts.


End file.
